The Highwaymen
by Petra Todd
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and his new business partner are held up by a pair of highwaymen on the road, and there's nothing Sherlock won't do to retrieve what's his. Historical period AU.


**_This is a birthday present for dietplainlite. One day late. whoops. Anyway, happy birthday!_**

* * *

With the deadly tip of the steel blade pressed against his throat, Sherlock found it harder than usual to summon a casual pose. The dropping of one shoulder could drive the cutting edge into his carotid artery; he settled for a smug smile directed at the short bandit brandishing the sword.

"Do try to avoid nicking me if you're not serious; my wife's just ordered new neck cloths and I'd hate to have to explain the stains to her. Molly is rather particular about me bleeding. Wives are so foolish that way." He flexed his fingers into a fist and shifted on the cushions of the carriage seat. On the bench across from him, Wilkes cringed, weeping into the lace trim of his sleeves.

Crude black fabric served as a mask covering all the bandit's face but for the eyes. Behind the holes, the thief's eyes narrowed, watching Sherlock's hands warily. With the criminal's shapeless hat mashed onto his head and a lumpy longcoat that smelled like a barn, Sherlock knew he wasn't dealing with highwaymen of the most dashing caliber. There would be no poetry written about this lot.

Sherlock's eyes scanned the darkness outside their window. Night had fallen as he drove with the wealthy merchant- an old friend and his new business partner- and they were well into the forest before they'd realized they were being robbed. Even if they disarmed these two bandits and abandoned their now-unconscious driver, he was uncertain if there were more rogues by the road outside. His own gentleman's blade wouldn't be enough to defend a weak sod like Wilkes and a passed-out driver.

"I see you've studied the Iberian method," Sherlock began, but the sword tip poked him, cutting him off, and the bandit's gloved hand gestured toward his partner outside.

"Fuck me, what's taking so long? Oh we've got a talker, a brave lad." The second thief, taller than the first but swathed in the same type of mask, swung into the carriage and shoved Sherlock back into the corner. His voice was muffled behind the material but there was no mistaking the seriousness underlying his blithe tone.

"Get the gold and let's move on. Be a good sport about it." The man grinned, clapping Sebastian Wilkes on the shoulder, and leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. "A little bird tells me you're a clever one, and despite being a right coward, you always travel with a chunk of well-hidden coin. Now, we can tear apart your entire carriage to find it, or you can hand it over and we'll let you keep your life, and even the damn carriage. I'm a_ nice_ gent like that. So you're going to get chatty or my man here's going to start cutting." His blue eyes sparkled and then grew cold behind the mask. "And when he starts cutting…he doesn't stop until he hits bone."

* * *

Sherlock swore a nasty streak as Wilkes ripped open the seats of his carriage and dumped bag after bag of coin into the talkative bandit's waiting arms, while the deadly one threatened Sherlock anew with his glower and steel.

"Really, Sebastian? How could you be so stupid? We didn't need more than a hundred pieces to get started this week. You'll be bankrupted this quarter-"

"We were going to be gone weeks! I can't be without- be without my necessities," the merchant cried, red-faced. His _necessities_, Sherlock had discovered after reconnecting with his acquaintance from Oxford, mostly involved games of whist and prostitutes of the priciest sort who would indulge his most creative whims. "Please, sirs, consider a man's need, my yearly sum will be all but-"

"Hmmm, I think not," the bandit replied, attaching the last bag of coin to the waiting pair of horses outside. Climbing onto the horse, he whistled to his friend, who dropped the sword from Sherlock's throat and hopped out to join his partner. As the taller thief set off, he called back, "Pleasure doing business with you!" and disappeared into the night.

The other bandit gazed back at Sherlock and laughed, a low husky sound. With a shout, the bandit took off, galloping away with their bags of gold lashed to the saddle. Sherlock's eyes burned and he jumped up from the seat, stripped off his stiff overcoat, and pulled on the leather riding gloves from his coat pockets.

"What are you doing?" cried Wilkes. Wiping away the remnants of his tears with a silk handkerchief, the merchant's outrage came boiling to the surface. "How dare they touch what's mine! How dare they. The filth!"

"Starting to think this business endeavor may be more trouble than its worth. There is the matter of our driver, as well. Do check and see that he is still alive," Sherlock ordered. A slow smile formed on his lips. "Stay here and wait for help. I'm going to get our gold."

* * *

It had been a long time since he'd ridden bareback, but there was no choice. There was no saddle for the mount he'd freed from the harness. The other horse stayed behind with the coach the animals had been pulling since they left town. Wilkes patted at the driver's head distastefully, his fingertips barely grazing the man, and watched as Sherlock vanished the way the highwaymen had rode off.

The road forked not far off amid a clearing and the moon rose over head, showing him the way. He scrutinized the path in the scant moonlight and deduced: the first rider had gone left, and the second right.

_The second._ _The short one._ That's the one he wanted to take down. He flew through the night, the horse panting beneath him, and the trees blurring past. The road cut through the forest and within an hour he found the path widening, signaling that a town was nearby.

Sure enough, the thick woods grew sparse and the path opened up on a hill overlooking a village. The faintest light touched the horizon, hinting that dawn was an hour off. The pounded grass showed him the way the bandit had ridden as clearly as if he had ridden by the thief's side all the way. Sherlock laughed breathlessly, resting for a minute atop his horse and rubbing his thighs. The snug black trousers he wore were ruined from the bareback riding and muddy road, and his snow-white shirt had lost the top three buttons, but his entire body hummed with the electricity of the chase.

He righted himself on the mount, and took off down the hill at a slower pace, following the horseshoe path of the bandit's horse until it led to a barn on the outskirts of the other side of the village. He climbed down off the horse and stroked its side, calming the animal while he tied it to a fence with a stray piece of rope. Glancing around and finding no one awake in the sleepy village, Sherlock strode to the barn door, and threw it open.

A cow blinked at him from her stall, and Sherlock glared back at the creature pointedly until a giggle was heard from the loft.

"To be fair, this is Bessie's barn. She has the right to stare." Still wearing the mask, the bandit crawled to the edge of the loft and dropped a rope ladder down. The bottom landed at Sherlock's feet; he quirked one eyebrow up at the ladder and then craned his neck up. The bandit scrambled back from the loft edge, until Sherlock heard them rustling in the hay.

When he reached the top of the ladder, he found his bandit sitting on bales of hay with legs dangling over, the unpleasant-smelling overcoat and gloves thrown to the corner. Without the coat, the thief was revealed as not only short, but thin with delicate fingers clasping the sword.

Sherlock crossed the loft and ripped the hat and mask from the bandit's face. Long waves of honey-brown hair fell from a cord as he yanked the mask away from her. Dropping the mask and hat on the floor, Sherlock covered her hands where they gripped the hilt.

Leaning in with his lips brushing the woman's ear, Sherlock murmured, "Don't you think you were cutting it rather close?" He stroked her knuckles. "You almost cut me."

"Don't you think you should kiss me already?" Molly whispered, letting the slim sword fall her grasp into the hay beneath them.

* * *

Making a space for himself between her thighs, Sherlock took his wife's mouth and she took him in return, her legs wrapping around his waist and pulling tight to her. When the kiss threatened to mellow into a hazily warm familiar embrace, Sherlock let his devilish impulses take over- and nipped her throat in an exact mirror of the place where she'd prodded him with her sword.

Molly yelped and laughed, smacking his arm before sliding a hand down under his shirt to stroke his belly while she murmured how much she'd missed him. He felt a surge of relief at having her back in his arms, safe with the night's escapades done.

He brushed her hair back over her shoulders. "I didn't see any hitches or pursuit in your trail."

"None. John will meet us in Dunston tomorrow as planned. I assume his escape was clean." Molly gasped as her husband kissed his way down her neck, his hands lifting her shirt to thumb her nipples into hard peaks. Impatiently he hiked the shirt over her head and bent to taste her. She dug her nails into the bale under her fingers and fell back, arching into Sherlock's mouth as her nipples slid over his flicking tongue. "With the rest of the gold," she moaned. "So we just have to wait out tonight."

"Fine, fine," he said, cupping her small breasts in his hands and smiling up at her. "I rather wish I hadn't lost that neck cloth on the ride. I rather liked it. Though I like fleecing a crooked merchant like Wilkes more." His eyes grew dark and he kissed her collarbone thoughtfully. "Did you really think it was necessary to play with my life, Mrs. Holmes?" Sherlock drew off her boots and pulled at the ties of her trousers. "I don't think it was necessary."

Molly lifted her arse up, allowing him to pull her remaining clothes off in one rough haul. Her cheek's dimples showed. "Oh but it was-"

He cut her off with a bruising kiss, and tugged her off the bales, onto her feet. Sherlock spun her around and she caught hold of the stacked bales, sinking her fingers into the prickly hay to steady herself. "You're not truly angry, are you?" Molly asked uncertainly. "We had to be convincing, or Wilkes would suspect you and the driver were in on the plan."

Sherlock fought a smile behind her back. "I think you like playing the criminal a little too much, wife." He closed the distance between them, letting her feel the hardness of his cock pressing into her arse. "Perhaps I've created a monster, in our little endeavor to inconvenience Mr. Wilkes and the unscrupulous merchants that ruined our client."

"Maybe you have. Maybe I'll keep the gold instead of giving it to the people he cheated." Turning her head, she grinned mischievously, her brown eyes radiant. "Or maybe not. What are you going to do about it?"

"Hmm." He cupped her arse, splaying one huge hand across her bottom and lightly slapping the flesh. Instinctively, Molly leaned into his touch and he smacked harder, observing the way her arse bounced and pinked under his palm.

"Do it again," she said happily, wiggling her hips.

"Hmmm." Sherlock marveled how his wife was full of surprises; he was learning more every day he knew her. Drawing his arm back, his hand came down again and again, until she was bent over the bale and bucking back against his hand, her cunt gleaming with wetness.

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighed, lifting her head, her hair a shining tangled halo around her. Her cheeks were flushed rosy red and the gaze meeting his was dreamy. "That's lovely."

"Interesting." Sherlock filed the information into the fortress in his brain, tucking it into corners to be assessed later. Ways to pleasure Molly were never deleted. They would be mulled over long after he had analyzed and grown bored of thinking about their adventure with the wealthy merchant. Ways of making her beg for him were infinitely more intriguing.

"Sherlock? What's that?" Molly asked, her voice fearful. She pointed off the loft and downward.

Alert at once, he hurried to the edge, knelt and peered downward. He found only Bessie the cow in her stall.

He turned around to find Molly standing over him, sword in hand again. Still nude, but with a decidedly less dreamy look in her eyes.

"Now then," she said, her sweet voice musical in her demand. She lifted the sword and brandished it at him, poking him lightly in the calf. "Take off your trousers."

* * *

"I do like playing the thief," Molly agreed. "Decided I want to take _you _too."

Sherlock laughed and stood up. "Come now, wife."

"Do it," she ordered stubbornly, prodding him.

"Ow. Dammit. Fine." Sherlock bowed to her and undid his remaining buttons, slowly sliding off his shirt and revealing his pale muscled torso, sprinkled with gingery hair. He kicked off his boots with less drama before rolling down his tight trousers. They were only halfway down his thighs when Molly insisted he halt.

Sherlock gazed pointedly down at his erection, and raised his eyebrows. _Your move,_ he thought.

Molly bit the inside of her cheek, but the redness of her cheeks and the glow of her eyes gave her away. Holding the sword high, she said softly, "Show me." Realizing it hadn't come out like she'd planned, she tried again, louder. "Show me how you touch yourself, when I'm not there."

Understanding, Sherlock moved away from the edge, and sat in the loose hay. Slipping off his trousers and relaxing his legs, he laid back against the wall and took himself in hand. Squeezing the thickness of his cock through his fingers, Sherlock manipulated the foreskin to expose his shaft, growing harder with every rolling caress. Pearls of come beaded on the tip and his eyes grew heavy-lidded as he stroked himself and looked upon his wife.

"My curious Molly," he said, his voice husky. "You want to know what I think about. Come closer."

Her façade slipping, Molly hurried over to his side, standing by in fascination as he worked himself. He was amazed again at how her mind worked, and at himself for not considering this before. If she had ever asked for this, he would have done it for her. Such a simple thing. Was this what she thought of, what she dreamed about? And she wanted to know what he did, what he dreamed of when she wasn't there?

"Closer," he said, reaching out, his palm grazing the back of her knee. "Put one foot on each side of my legs. Spread further apart. Good," he remarked as she obeyed. He looked up at her, his eyes alight, and wrapped one arm around her thigh, pulling her close. "This is what I think about when you're not here."

Bending in and curling one hand tightly around his cock, he slid a tongue deep into the folds of her pussy. As his fingers teased his own hardness, he sucked and licked her clit into readiness. How could he ever explain to her how much he loved this, how grateful he'd been when he discovered how she embraced the pleasure of his tongue? A woman who tasted like summer and musk and everything that made him want to howl. A woman without an ounce of cruelty, and yet still utterly free.

Molly moaned and bent forward, her hands locked on the wall. Sherlock abandoned his hardon and wrapped both hands around her arse, massaging her bottom and shaking thighs. She gasped as he hit a tender spot on her inner thigh.

"Sorry, long night. Too much riding," Molly laughed. "Don't stop."

"Not enough riding," Sherlock said. Shifting down, he grabbed Molly's hand and dragged her to the hay with him. Lying back, he pushed at her thighs until she was straddling his face. Catching on, Molly sighed and spread herself open, rocking on his lips and chin. He smacked her arse in encouragement until she was crying out wordlessly with her peak, her juices running into his mouth.

Molly collapsed at his side, trying to speak. "I- I-"

"Yes, yes, you love me. I've heard every possible version of the phrase, especially when I'm between your thighs." He rolled his eyes. Molly swatted him, and Sherlock rolled onto his belly to come to his knees. He crawled on top of his wife, hovering over her, and studied the laugh lines of her face and the curious turn of her nose. She was always a puzzle to him. Would he ever really understand the woman who had chosen to love him? Did he want to?

Kissing her thin mouth, Sherlock at last sank his cock inside her wet warmth. The pace of their lovemaking was a gentle stroll compared to the race moments before. But when he felt the blinding pleasure pouring through his body and into Molly, with their hands clasped, he knew it was the finish he'd been chasing.


End file.
